Making Yous Metal
by Doktor Girlfriend
Summary: Dethklok prepares their newest member for his first show.


Title: Making Yous Metal  
Author: Doktor Girlfriend  
Pairing/Cast: Nathan/?, Dethklok  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: Language, slash, vomit, possible crack. Y'know, the usual.  
Summary: Dethklok prepares their newest member for his first show.  
Disclaimer: I do not own _Metalocalypse_. I wouldn't be posting this for free if I did.  
Notes: My entry for Brutal Business' "Beginnings Are Brutal" theme month. This originated forever ago as a single image, but as I can't draw for shit, it became a story. And before you say anything, yes, I KNOW this would never happen in a millions billions years. Thank you. I wrote it anyway. Many thanks to Rattie for the emergency beta. 3

**Making Yous Metal**

**By Doktor Girlfriend**

"Stop you's squirming! You messes me up!"

"I don't want to get any in my eyes..."

"Feh. I knows whuts I doing." Toki firmly gripped his captive's chin, keeping him from turning away again as he carefully applied the corpse paint. "Toki makes you looks goods and scary for you first concerts!"

"Ja, well you is has de easy jobs," Skwisgaar huffed, fussing with the hair of the man sitting before him and becoming increasingly irritated. "I can'ts dos nut'inks wit' dis! Is goes out all overs!"

"I _told_ you I didn't want to grow it out so much. Once it gets this long, it starts sticking out like that."

"Well, you can't goes on stages wit' us wit' shorts hairs."

"Yeah, you'd look like kind of a tool, dood." Pickles grinned, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder. "How ya feelin'?"

The man drew in a breath as he considered the question, shifting his backside against the uncomfortable plastic chair he sat in and wondering, not for the first time, just what the hell he thought he was doing here. He was in the dressing room, at the mercy of his new bandmates, and less than twenty minutes from going on stage for the first time since the high school talent show. The door was closed and guarded, the make-up and wardrobe staff forbidden from entering. Dethklok had insisted on preparing their newest member for his debut themselves, and wouldn't allow any of the Klokateers to touch him. So here he sat, Toki finger-painting black circles around his eyes, Skwisgaar attempting to make his hair resemble something akin to "metal," and Pickles dispensing his own special brand of reassurance.

They'd even given him their hand-me-downs. His hands fisted against the faded denim of Pickles' old jeans. "I feel like a tool," he finally muttered in answer to his drummer.

Pickles thumped his back encouragingly. "Ah, ye'r gahnna be fine. Hey, y'know what we do when we're nervous before a show?" he asked with a cheeky grin, dangling a bottle before the other man's face.

"I really don't want to go on stage drunk, thank you."

"Dood, we do it all the time."

Toki snickered. "Ja, but he's a light's weights! You remembers last times we takes hims outs?"

Brown eyes ringed with black narrowed at the Norwegian. "Shut up, Toki."

"Dere, you sees?" Skwisgaar offered from behind, still meticulously finger-combing his hair. "You's ones of us alreadies."

"Ooh! Ooh!" Pickles chimed, hand raised like he just couldn't wait for the teacher to call on him. "Dood, y'know what else you could do? Puke! Back when I was frontin' Snakes 'N Barrels, if I ever felt anxious before goin' on stage, I'd jest throw up and feel tons better!"

"I don't think vomiting is going to help my situation either..."

"Well, I'm gahnna leave this bucket here jest in case..."

"Stops dat!" Skwisgaar's hand snaked forward to slap at the man's as it rose to rub his eyes. "You will gets da paints in you's eyes den."

The man blinked harshly, squinting. "My contacts itch. Why can't I wear my glasses?"

"You can'ts wear you's glasses on stage!" Toki proclaimed indignantly, peppering little spots of gray over the other's cheekbones. "Dey falls off when you headsbang."

"I am _not_ going to headbang."

"Aw, but-!"

"We have discussed this, Toki."

"Aww, you no funs..."

They turned their heads to the dressing room door, a knock and a Gear's muffled voice sounding from the other side. "Ten minutes, my Lords."

The man stiffened against the back of the chair. "Oh, God..."

"Dat's its!" Skwisgaar pushed suddenly back from the chair, throwing up his hands in an equally dramatic gesture. "Is no hopes. You just hasing to be de ones wit' de weirds hairs for tonights." He eyed Pickles critically. "Well, ones of de ones..."

Pickles casually flipped him the bird before leaning over to examine the frozen figure in the chair. "You holdin' up alright there, chief?"

"I'm gonna throw up!"

"In the bucket, dood."

He grabbed the proffered item, tipping off the chair and to his knees as Toki leapt backwards with a squeak. Heaving violently and clutching the bucket so hard his knuckles turned white, he reflected once more on the absurdity of the situation. What was he doing? Who did he think he _was_, vomiting in the dressing room and made-up like a zombie with Pickles' too tight jeans sliding off his hips? He wasn't a _rock star_. He was the very antithesis of a rock star! The fact that he even _used_ words like "antithesis" was proof enough of that!

"What the fuck'sh going on in there?" The door swung inward, Murderface peering through the gap. He'd been assigned to guard the dressing room from fans, paparazzi, and authorized personnel alike and was none too happy about it. The fact that he had earned the position on the grounds that he was Murderface and no one else wanted to do it might have had something to do with that. He observed the shaking man puking in a bucket with a sneer.

"Aren't you guysh done yet? It'sh almosht time to- Hey!" A Klokateer had taken advantage of his distraction to slip through the door, hurrying to the man kneeling on the floor and offering him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth and soothe his throat. "Hey! You can't do that! I'm guarding the door! And what'sh wrong with him anyway?"

"Just gotta little stage fright, dood."

"Aww, great! I told you letting him in the band wasch a bad idea! He'sh a panshy!"

"Hey, you is not ones to be talkings, I t'inks." Skwisgaar had moved before the mirror to make sure his own hair was primed for windmilling. "You pisses all overs youself before your first shows."

"He still pisses himself before shows." The gravelly voice was accompanied by a shadow falling over Murderface. Dethklok's frontman loomed in the doorway, blocking it entirely, and grunted. "We've got like five minutes, guys. How's it coming?"

The man on the floor quickly stood, shoving the bottled water back to the hovering Gear and shooing her off. He adjusted the escaping jeans and oversized T-shirt, pushing the bucket away with his foot, fretting and unable to look up as he felt Nathan Explosion's sharp eyes boring into him.

"Aw, dude..."

"Now we does de best we could. Not dats we has a lots to works wit'..."

"Shut up, Skwisgaar." The singer lumbered purposely toward his band's newest initiate, catching his chin in his large hand and firmly tipping his head up. Those intense green eyes continued to drill holes into the smaller man as Nathan thoroughly studied him, one eyebrow raised and his head canted slightly to the side. He thought about saying something, anything, maybe apologizing for any part he had played in anyone deciding this was a good idea. But any chance of doing so was obliterated as the frontman swooped in, crushing their mouths together.

This... was a pleasant surprise but not wholly unexpected. Nathan pulled back long enough to growl "Fucking sexy little shit" before claiming a very willing mouth once more.

Toki flipped.

"Whats is you doings?" the young guitarist shrieked, pounding his fists against Nathan's broad back. "You stops dat rights now! Gets off hims! You wrecks all my hards work!"

"Shut the fuck up, Toki," was mumbled against the brown-eyed man's lips. The singer pulled back once more to glare at the rest of his bandmates. "Y'know what? Get out. All of you get out. Drummers, Scandinavians, out. You too, skank!" he snarled at the lingering roadie. "Everybody start heading out. We'll catch up in a minute."

Nathan waited for the door to close behind the others before turning back to the man in his arms, rumbling deep in his chest. "You look good, baby."

"You think so?" The shorter man turned to catch a look at himself in the mirror. "I'm not so sure this is working..."

"Well, it's only your first show. You've got time to work on your look. We all changed ours. You can find some better clothes, maybe trim your hair..."

"I could wear my glasses?" he asked hopefully, giving a few exaggerated blinks. He really hated these contacts.

"We'll see," Nathan chuckled, rubbing his arms encouragingly. "But this works for now."

The other man bit his lower lip, watching as his reflection did the same. "Nate... I'm nervous."

"Yeah, I know. But you're gonna be great." Nathan caught his lover by the chin again, pulling him around for another kiss. "And if you feel like you're gonna spaz, just look at me, okay?"

"Okay..." He gave a faint sigh as Nathan's lips touched his, wrapping his arms around the massive shoulders. The frontman's own arms slid around his waist, pulling him closer as his tongue probed his lips.

"HEY, GUYS!" The shrill yodel of Pickles' voice was followed by a pounding on the door. "Doods, put your pants back on and let's go!"

"ALRIGHT, PICKLES! GOD!" Nathan shook himself in frustration before turning them toward the door. "I'm gonna fucking _wreck_ you after the show," he growled.

The brown-eyed man smiled, allowing the bigger man to lead him with an arm around his back and waist. "I look forward to that, Nathan."

The frontman grinned, pulling the door open. Immediately they were assaulted by the screaming of the crowd beyond, waiting for their gods to take the stage. The grin grew broader, and Nathan drew his bandmate closer, giving him an encouraging squeeze.

"We're on, Charlie."


End file.
